Dancing with Fire
by Skythian
Summary: The livid landscape was tinted with vivid orange hued rays. The sunlight scorched around Lexa like fire. Her inflamed cape was dancing with the wind as it flapped at her side, almost like a dragon's wing. Lexa Targaryen embodied Aegon the Conqueror's ruthlessness and strength. And yet she was also human, harboring her demons. Clarke knew then that she needed her strength.
1. Story of the Dirt, the Sweat, the Blood

Hey guys, I'm sure the premiere might leave you craving for some Clexa so feel free to indulge. I'm thinking of slightly incorporating it into a Game of Thrones AU. But even if you don't watch Game of Thrones, you can still read it as I don't go overboard with the crossover and I pretty much explain things in any case. Anyways, I hope you all enjoy. Feedback and comments are appreciated!

The cursive font represents emphasis or thoughts.

* * *

Hard-steel settled upon a raw and soft surface; even the tiniest movement penetrated a narrow gap upon the malleable layer. A slight withdrawal, a hesitation lasting a mere blinking moment by the wielder was followed by a soft gasp escaping through the lips of another as the cold blade was drawn back to its latter positioning. The cracked lips parted in an attempt to let out an uncontrolled wheeze. Burning blood pumped fiercely through veins, sending heat throughout both bodies, and so, loud drum-like heart beats resounded in an ungovernable tempo. They escalated with each passing instant in an unmeasurable velocity as if attempting to desperately tear apart from both chests. Glares locked. Breaths clashed. At the outskirts of their bodies shadows danced to the rhythms of their respiration. And the heat shared between them bounced along their flesh.

"Is this what you wish for, Clarke?" The faint, barely stable sounds drifted into the atmosphere which caused rupture to the boiling physiological tension.

Clarke's eyes slightly widened from the familiar tone. She tried to carefully digest and filter out the spoken words. Her body swayed as her eyes narrowed once again and her lips partly spread, "It's because of you I am like this."

A bolt of lightning ran through the other woman's body. In parallel reflection to when she had restlessly imagined her hundreds of warriors being burned alive, a searing sensation was dispersing throughout her entire being. And she felt the scorching fire inside of her. It ate her up inside, leaving marks that could never be repaired. She swallowed her words because they were too, on fire. She swallowed her words because she would never dare spread the blaze-coated words onto the surface. Her eyes were melting, but she knew that she must not fall. She straightened her back even further and lifted her chin.

"Say something, Lexa!" Clarke's blurted out words ended up knocking upon each other, and Lexa felt their heavy impact when shock waves radiated throughout her body. Clarke's hand trembled until she decided to press her knife a bit closer to Lexa's neck in a desperate attempt to squeeze out an explanation out of her.

"I wish I had something to say." The tall brunette could feel herself shrinking as she treaded lightly, trying to control the burning inside her guts. "I wish I could tell you a reason of why I left. A reason that would erase all the pain, an explanation worth the sacrifice of your people. But there isn't one. And there never will be."

Clarke followed with a loud shriek. Her eyes sharply glared at Lexa before she dropped her gaze to the ground and exhaled deeply, her entire body was suddenly withering to resemble the rotting inside her. She launched the knife to the floor and wobbled away towards the nearest wall. Although she was very restless, Clarke would not succumb to her urges to collapse and languish on the ground. Not in front of her people, certainly not in front of Lexa.

Lexa's eyes pursued her path, never once looking away. Clarke's pain was her pain –unavoidable.

"I understand," Clarke whispered as she nodded to no one in particular, keeping her jaw clenched tightly.

Clarke's clothes were ragged and just as messed up as her thoughts. Dirt and sweat and blood was soaked inside her torn sweater and pants. The leather from her knife holster was heavily worn out. Her bare skin was bathed in layers of sweat and salt. She licked her lips and tasted the blood of hundreds crawling upon her skin, digging further inside her very spoiled soul. She shriveled further inside herself. The armor of her spirit was stained by countless flesh wounds, she felt her brain being scratched out and burning from countless rewinds and excuses and explanations of the Mountain. She had lost every bit of strength to fight it and her feelings were overwhelming her. The only bit of knowledge that she was certain of were of Lexa's words spinning inside her mind over and over again. _This is war Clarke, people die. Victory stands on the back of sacrifice._ She knew war was not fair, war was never joyous. She understood Lexa's decision, she related to it as soon as she stopped denying it at the Mountain. That is why she knew that she could not trust her any longer, not anymore, because in war promises are non-existent, the future is eliminated, what is left-over is only the present.

Lexa watched Clarke as if reading every inch of her life from the past three months. She studied every piece of Clarke: her clothing, her disheveled hair, her scraped nails, her exhausted expression, her broken spirit. Lexa stared at her mirror-image and she knew why, she mutually understood Clarke. That is why Lexa's faint frown was not a demonstration of pity but that of empathy. Lexa was aware that it was due to this that Clarke became _stronger_ , similarly she knew what followed was the exponential wrapping of this acquired _strength_ into a stone-like heart: the smallest holes which are seeping out innocence become covered by a layer of cement.

Lexa felt the weight of her presence drowning both of them, as if the ocean was swallowing them whole into its unimaginable depths. Despite the pressing load immobilising Lexa to her very fingertips she forced herself towards the door. Momentarily she paused and slowly looked over her shoulder. "I will arrange for someone to handle the bathtub for you. Get some rest. We will discuss further matters later."

Clarke felt herself trapped inside what seemed like a compressed aquarium cubicle. Her eardrums received the message completely water-down: barely audible and very dull. Her eyelids sunk heavier, her body staggered before relapsing back to reality. In which time felt to have dragged on for an eternity, she spoke through her breath, "We need to talk now." At the absence of Lexa's words Clarke shifted her narrow gaze towards what conveyed the impression of a familiar trace of a shady tall silhouette. Despite the blurriness of this image Clarke was aware that Lexa had removed her presence from the room. The warmth vanished, Clarke thought to herself as her eyelids involuntarily sealed shut into complete darkness.

* * *

Clarke shifted to her side until a beam of realisation drove her to fly open her eyelids and sit upright. A loud gasp escaped as she reached out for her knife holster whilst rapidly glancing at her surroundings. She felt a softness compressing around her legs and buttocks and fresh air seeping into her lungs. She snapped out of her thoughts at the sound of a soft whisper, "Clarke." Lexa pivoted her torso towards the direction of the bed.

"How am I here?"

"You were on the ground. The bed is always much better to sleep on, I find," Lexa replied with a blank expression.

Clarke scoffed and vaguely rolled her eyes as she motioned her body towards the edge of the bed.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Lexa pressured on with an emphasis in her voice. Clarke blocked out the suggestion from her mind and forced herself to stand up. A loud groan in combination with a swift collapse onto the bed became the result of her achievement. Lexa's expression revealed a hint of arrogance before glancing back at the slightly opened window in the middle of the room.

The horizon was painted in velvet, orange and blue; the colors were mashed together side by side, dancing around each other as in waltz, passionately embracing one another. The view paralleled the one from Lexa's room. The view she would witness every evening before retiring to bed. It provided her with different shades of feelings.

The sun enveloped its fire around her city, immersing its warmth into her people. In the same way it emulated in her eyes; she would feel its strength. But such a feeling would pass when she looked beyond the horizon, beyond the protection of her people, beyond her own powers. As the sun would set and the city would vanquish of its light, the tint of fire in her eyes would disappear. The room would be left in complete darkness. The cool air would glide along her body, stripping her off her armor. And she would feel her body crashing. Caged emotions would try to escape through the cracks of a broken heart, a broken soul which was once thought to have been melded in hard iron. The weakness in her limbs would whimper out in response to her shaking jaw, her slightly ever perked up lips reciting to herself a list of _what ifs_. The light reflecting from the moon would create shadows of her silhouette and Lexa would stare upon the spiral of its darkness, paralysed by the abyss taking hold of her, engulfing her inside. She would anguish over painful memories. The flashbacks in her dreams were illustrated in dark crimson with the shadows of people extending and branching out from her own. She would witness clear visuals of Costia's decapitated head, the plunging sword in Gustus's flesh, the pool of blood around Anya's body and a pair of desperate eyes at the Mountain.

Lexa would reawaken to the sun caressing her skin, mocking her to wake up. Lexa's eyes became fire once again. " Love is weakness," she would separately pronounce each individual word in her thoughts as if consciously trying to split her head apart from her memories, her emotions, herself. This was reality: she was the Commander, a leader, a ruler.

Clarke huffed annoyingly at the sight of dozens of bruises and cuts along her shoulder blade and left leg.

"You need to wash yourself. It will help with the sores and infections," Lexa urged nonchalantly. Clarke sighed in acknowledgement. "Bandages, some fresh clothes and ointment are on the stool beside the bathtub," Lexa pressed on before taking a last look at Clarke and turning away. "We can talk once you're finished here."

A moment of an intentional silence was broken by Lexa's unintentional slip up, "We can only try, Clarke." With her back still turned away she continued, "We gain new experiences with each passing day. We feel the pain whistling mockingly from within us, pulling us towards it; but in the end we can only try out of sheer will to reel out of it, harbor the demons inside us and move forward."

"What if you are becoming the demon?" Clarke's words clung to Lexa's back, clawing it ruthlessly. Lexa bit her lip to contain her gasp. The Commander straightened her back once again and tossed up her chin. "You never are _the demon_. But they will forever be a part of you and only you can control them." Lexa perceived an ominous silence stretching out into the middle of the room, clutching to the edges of the walls. She landed her hand on her sword and slid her fingers around it. Thoughts lingered with the motion. Lexa thought of the second sword which she wielded, one which was acquired alongside her birth as the Commander. This double-edged blade, stretched out as an extension of herself, pierces through individuals beyond their physical encases. It plunges into their core, inside their very existence and identity; drenched in ever-lasting poison it spreads and destroys. It is her people's protection and her curse.

That is why she knew that she had to leave, she knew of her inability to look back. She felt herself collapsing at the thought of looking into Clarke's eyes that had once burned with passion, now burning with distaste and anguish. Eyes once filled with innocence and hope replaced by despair and helplessness. In fact, she did not deserve to turn around and see within Clarke right now, while her defenses were left so vulnerable. Consequently, she had not deserved to look through her at this moment and tell her that she did not want it to come to this, to tell her that she _does_ care, to tell her that some happiness does exist because Clarke had showed it to her. Because in the end those words would have carried no weight, they had lost their meaning ever since she had walked away. And in the same way, her weightless words would have also drifted away along a tide of wind. So instead Lexa _decided_ to take in a big breath before pushing herself past the heaviness fluctuating in the atmosphere, towards the door.

Clarke stared upon the outline of Lexa's figure, she compared it and laid upon its image an image of Lexa drifting farther away from the Mountain. The outlines fit perfectly upon each other: Lexa's back, steady and guarded, was shaking weakly. And Clarke looked upon it with marvelled eyes yet knowing, surprised yet not. Lexa quickly retreated, but Clarke knew.

Clarke followed in response by shifting all her weight onto her feet. As she stood up, Clarke undressed.

Her body quivered upon contact with the fairly warm water and her head was full. It was buzzing and she was afraid to close her eyes in order to indulge in a bath she had not taken in months. She knew of the vivid tormenting images she would have witnessed once she did and she was aware of the buzzing being turned into screeching.

She felt uncomfortable in the absence of the blade she had stolen from one of Lexa's people, which was most likely returned during her slumber. Her nakedness made her feel disgusting. She could not rest, she could not afford this luxury, and she had to be on her guard. Yet only a moment ago she was in this same position except under different circumstances. She cursed her weakness. But likewise she recognized that ironically, the person who had hurt her most, understood her the most. The created swivel of thoughts and emotions lead Clarke upon remembering her mother's words, _maybe there are no good guys_ , in the same way as there were no bad guys. Clarke sank further into the bath in an attempt of washing away her endless thoughts, but to no avail. She sighed as she sat back upright and decided to finally clean her physical vessel. She scrubbed herself off of the dirt and sweat and blood but treaded lightly upon contact of soap and cloth on her wounds. The result became so satisfying to Clarke that she yearned for all the pain she felt to be scrapped off and drained off from inside of her in a similar manner. Instead she clenched her jaw and took a hold of herself. _Control your demons_.

She got out of the tub after she had set her delusions aside. The blonde squinted sharply as she pressed ointment upon her wounds. She wrapped the bandages around her shoulder blade and left leg and bound her breasts as well. She slithered into somewhat worn out yet tightly fit dark pants and put on a slightly long, loose white shirt with dirt stains visible on it. She slowly slid her arms inside a thick red jacket and strapped on her empty chestnut holster.

Clarke walked towards the door and could not have helped but feel slightly refreshed as the wind blowing through the window fluttered through her golden locks and provided her with a cooling breeze. Even if for a single second, even if she was aware of this empty appearance which was just a moment ago cheaply imitating the dirt, the sweat, the blood inside of her; she had finally felt as though she had come back onto the surface of the shore, with the sun and wind greeting her, after a long, dark and excruciating dive into the ocean. That is why she could not have controlled her lips vaguely curving upwards. She hesitantly allowed herself this single moment of weakness.


	2. Phoenix

Lexa felt the frigid metal surroundings of the translucent ruby ring pressing against her finger. The nostalgic object she had collected from her tiny wooden box hidden underneath her bed acted as a gate. Lexa gazed at the ring mournfully as her mouth twisted into a grimace. She sensed the blizzard biting at her flesh, these steel swords grazed against her back. The Targaryen sat atop a cascade of victories, a cascade of human souls kept trapped inside the warriors' blades.

Her slim fingers lingered directly atop the ring; almost subconsciously she reached out to wipe away the dusty layer clustering around the gem. It did not shine as it had before, it had nearly turned colorless, and its meaning had been stained by a dimness Lexa could not have possibly have brushed off.

Lexa clasped bits and pieces of her mother's reflection within the ghostly deep red. A loud thrumming filled the room as the sharp claws fanned aggressively in the air, stretching across the room and spiking along the large creatures' spines and from the edges of their wings: a giant wall surrounded Daenerys Targaryen. Their ruddy complexion radiated and appeared as flames upon her coating. The scowl on her face was drenched along the caverns of her features by the dragons' shadows. Her enemies sensed her infamous ferocity and they trembled at the fire in her blood. The sudden conscious awareness of their slim character brought out their inner feebleness, and a silent fright rapidly filled out in their eyes as they were drawn and swayed by the Queen's stern demands.

Lexa's recollections whistled and ached violently in the depths of her bones. She squinted briefly before looking back at the ring. A youthful child stood on her tiptoes in another room. Her arm stretched out as she pressed her puny hand against the dragon's extensive snout. The girl looked slightly confused as she stated, " I don't think he likes me." The figure beside the girl tilted her eyebrows outward; the crows-feet wrinkles at the sides of sparkling eyes and a closed smiling mouth replaced the menacing expression reserved for Daenerys's enemies. Her mother let out a chuckle before reassuring Lexa that Drogon respected her.

Lexa's memories of her childhood were contained in the smallest spaces of the largest rooms in the Red Keep. And yet the dragons' vast magnificence was clearly glued to Lexa's mind. Their blood-red bodies rose and fell steadily in rhythm to their short puffs like the beating of a calm heart. Lexa imagined the poisonous gas mixing in with the miniature clouds escaping through the dragon's nostrils until there was no more smoke, until the rising and falling ceased and the heart became too quiet; until they were drenched out of their scorching red embedded into millions of nail-like scales.

She imagined real flames eating away at the flesh and spitting out drab ashes of someone once believed to be immortal, immune; and of someone who turned out to be a mere living being.

She envisioned an innocent girl's lively and gently beating heart halting, a body once so full of movement turning still. Her glossy chestnut skin being slashed upon the layers of fresh cuts; and the facial expression upon her decapitated head being depleted of its richness.

Lexa's mind had drifted but she sensed the crystal clear glass images breaking into pieces inside her throat; they scrapped its tissue with each gulp. She heard the thudding in her eardrums and its noise became unsettling. Its fluctuating tempo was a reminder of her existence and of the weakness it endorsed.

She briefly remembered the striking ruby ring gleaming: two hearts connected in a playful dance, an excitement pushing against the ribcages of the two engaged lovers; an image too utopian now. Costia's heart was quiet yet Lexa's heart did not shut up. It told her story, it told her pain and it screamed her vulnerability. She _had_ to shut it up, she _had_ to tame it; Lexa _had_ to be dead so the Commander could _live_.

Lexa Targaryen jumped to her feet and slid off the ring. Light shown through the window and illuminated fire in her eyes. It fueled her: she was alive, she was the Commander, and _yet_ she was dormant: this fossilised mask was her people's protector and it was her curse.

Too much time had passed to remember the meaning of "carefree". And honestly, it had not mattered anymore because it was upon this sacrifice which victory lied, Lexa told herself. The Dark Age period spanning chaos for years had finally come to a near-full circle with the return of a unification of the Six Kingdoms. Despite severe losses of her House, Lexa Targaryen embodied Aegon the Conqueror's ruthlessness and strength.

Her stare snatched the breath away from countless warriors, her blades ripped away the souls of hundreds soldiers which had revolted. Hundreds of her own, still standing before the corpses on the gelid ground, secured their distance away from the Targaryen who settled her feet steadily upon the conquered territory. The razor-edged lines of the Commander's profile struck fear in them with a simultaneous respect and admiration. Her back straightened, and her chin cocked upwards. A grim face as rigid as stone with widened eyes sharp enough to leave cuts did not wince at the stench of blood soaking over her face and travelling across her armor. Dread propelled and was visible in her enemies white faces, the unclouded illustration of the Commander sent shivers down their spines; entranced by the powerful presence, they bowed down to the Targaryen.

The Seventh Kingdom, the Kingdom of the Mountain and the Vale, which mercilessly murdered her dragons and mother, the traitorous bastards who had used her people as test subjects, harvesting their blood, in an attempt to foster soldiers capable of emitting fire had been left undefeated until Clarke's people came along in boats travelling from across a never-ending sea of skies; extending from beyond the horizon, their lands were left foreign to Lexa.

The Targaryen carried herself in a swift yet adamant manner since the day she took the Throne. It had been absurd how such steel-resolve was immediately overturned by just a single gaze from hope-filled blue orbs. They were eyes of a river desperately wanting more, desiring to gush into the ocean. The shades of the blue sky caught her earthbound gaze. They lifted her and left her weightless. The Commander's hardened shoulders fell under the enchantment as her breathing melted into the atmosphere; those broad shoulders were a mere illusion as they came collapsing down with a whiff of the soothing aroma she had inhaled.

Clarke had shifted herself closer to Lexa, her surging warmth penetrated through the fossilised mask. Lexa noticed the thickly chained gate opening and her heart started pounding uncontrollably. It had made her go limp; Lexa's straightened spine softened and the tense muscles loosened. Clarke was close, too close. Their bodies were separated only by a few inches and their instincts were fighting furiously to break the distance. Lexa felt anxiety and tension wrestling inside her bones and the frustration gathering in the back of her throat. She could no longer contain herself from acting out what would have been the end of what she had become and what she had to be.

Lexa's damp eyes lurked periodically at Clarke's soft lips. She noticed the smooth motion of the tongue as it made a quick lap around _her_ lips. Lexa only blinked and the corners of _her_ lips were curving into a gentle smile; _her_ luscious lips were ever so sweet and infatuating. A deep fire brewed against Lexa's ribcage, and in her stomach butterflies flew willingly. Lexa perceived the heat collecting and pressing against her throat - her pupils dilated and her breathing quickened. The Targaryen had failed; but Lexa had not cared. She had assimilated the hope shimmering from those keen blue eyes, and it had awoken a desire deep inside of her. It was a pulsating need to shatter the chains, to break the barriers incapacitating her from drawing closer to Clarke's warmth.

Lexa had to act before she burst. Her head tilted forward and in a flash of a second she felt her mouth caressing the outskirts of a moist surface. Lexa ravelled at the softness and at the boiling sensation circulating throughout her body, sending tremors along her nerves as their bodies gently brushed against each other. Electricity ran across her skin, and she felt even the tiniest of strands of hair on her arms rising. Her pent up emotions were finally leaking out dangerously in the small space between them and yet she wanted more.

Her spine jolted when Clarke pressed her hand against Lexa's side, ambitiously securing her grip, and pulling Lexa towards her. A firm belief was acknowledged within this action: either of them could and would rationally let go soon; but not now, this moment was theirs alone. Clarke's reciprocity told Lexa that it was okay, and so Lexa evaporated in their comfort. Clarke's reciprocity revealed to Lexa that she too, was hungry and alive, so Lexa entangled her fingers in Clarke's hair; her hand tenderly holding the blonde in place, desperately clinging onto this short instant.

And for the first time in a very long time Lexa shared Clarke's hope. For the first time in all those deathly and tasteless, rigid years she had finally felt her heart igniting her eager emotions as her veins throbbed furiously. They knew of the consequences of dancing with fire yet damned them like little children.

They burnt; and they suffered. And Lexa was a fool. It cannot escape her to this day: the hunger of the living. The _Commander_ stood stoically, her _Targaryen_ blood fostered fire, and a mask of indifference was slotted onto her face. Underneath, something was fermenting; _Lexa_ was alive and she was hungry.

* * *

So much "red" imagery while eating red chili, I wonder if it influenced me? D:  
Just a heads up: Commander = Queen. Lexa earned the title of Commander (or The Uniter) because she faced all her battles head-on.

~~~ENJOY and Comments/feedback are greatly appreciated ~~~


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